


Middle-Aged Blokes

by wendymr



Series: The Ashes Series [2]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Male Friendship, Series, hurt-comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:23:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Us middle-aged blokes don't seem to have a lot of other options at the moment."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Middle-Aged Blokes

**Author's Note:**

> An unexpected (to me, at any rate) sequel to [To Rise from the Ashes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/311936), which now appears to have spawned a series. Still haven't seen further than Allegory of Love, so I'd really appreciate it if spoilers could be kept out of any comments. Thanks!

Hathaway’s looming.  

The man’s so tall that he almost seems to suck all the light out of the room – and sometimes the air too – when he does that. It’s unnecessary, too. Lewis can understand his sergeant not wanting to interrupt him when he’s working on something important, but this is only bloody paperwork. God knows he’ll snatch at any distraction when he’s doing paperwork.

Besides, Hathaway should realise that looming over him like this isn’t the same as waiting patiently until he’s finished with whatever he’s doing. It disturbs him every bit as much as if the bloke actually interrupted him.

“All right, what is it?” He tilts his head back – and back – to look at his sergeant.

Hathaway’s expression creases into the apologetic look he’s worn for much of the past week or so, since he came back to work. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to... I was just wondering, since we’ll be finished here soon. Are you doing anything this evening?”

Lewis wants to laugh; Hathaway should know better than to ask that. “What, other than a date with a beer and a pierce and ping?”

“A what, sir?”  

“Oh, never mind. Anyway, what’ve you got in mind? Want to go for a pint?”

They’ve managed that exactly once since Hathaway came back, partly because he’s been occupied giving statements and helping Grainger’s team by filling in any remaining gaps in the pitiful story of Will McEwan and Feardorcha Phelan. But also because the one time they did Hathaway was subdued and the conversation was awkward, punctuated with long silences.

He’d thought – hoped – that the talk the evening Hathaway came over to his flat and apologised had cleared the air. The fact that it obviously hasn’t is troubling, and he’s been racking his brain here and there for ways to break this impasse – as well as trying to figure out what he could have done differently. He told Hathaway that he was forgiven. He as good as told the lad he hoped Hathaway would feel he could confide in him in future.  

That Hathaway’s suggesting something now, though, is a good sign. He follows up his question with an encouraging smile.

“Well, actually, sir,” Hathaway says, and is that the closest thing to a smile that he’s seen on the lad’s face in days? “I was wondering if you’d like to come round to mine. I was thinking of cooking-”

“You don’t have to do that. Takeaway’s fine.”

“I’d like to, sir. I enjoy cooking.”  

Something else he didn’t know about his sergeant, then. Though he’s not fooled. This isn’t a casual invitation. Hathaway may or may not enjoy cooking, but in over two years this is the first time his sergeant’s invited him for a home-cooked meal.  

This is something Hathaway’s been planning for probably several days – and it’s another bloody apology.

It’s not necessary, and he wants to tell Hathaway that – but his mind flashes back to the tortured young man he refused to listen to and told to get out of his sight. No, it’s time to do this Hathaway’s way.

So he nods. “Thanks very much. I’d like that.”

Another smile from his sergeant. Good. “Great. Around seven?”

“Sure. Can I bring anything? Beer? Wine?”

“No need, sir. All sorted. Just bring yourself.”

 

***

Hathaway’s out of his work clothes when he lets Robbie in, looking impossibly young in what Lyn’s trained him to recognise as a Goth T-shirt and faded jeans – makes him glad he’s changed out of his suit into jeans and a casual shirt. Hathaway’s also wearing a chef’s apron.

“Didn’t know you were so serious about this cooking business,” he comments as he follows James into the flat. But then he should have expected it, shouldn’t he? _Used to row a bit_ and all that?

“What, because I have an apron? Wouldn’t want to spill anything on my clothes.”

“As if you’d be that careless,” he comments dryly. They’re in the kitchen now, and a quick glance around shows him three chopping boards filled with vegetables, and one with what’s obviously meat, but he’s not sure what. Chicken? Pork? The aroma suggests it’s been marinated. Hathaway’s gone to some trouble over this. “Besides, would anyone notice, on that T-shirt?”

“Sir,” Hathaway objects, mild chiding in his tone. “This is a limited-edition IKON T-shirt from their last UK tour-”

“Yeah, yeah.” Robbie lounges against the small kitchen table. “Looks like the kind of thing I’d use as a duster.”

James is busy starting to cook, but he glances around, eyebrows raised. “You actually _dust_ your flat, sir?”

He’d let Hathaway know what he thinks of his cheek, except this is the first time the lad’s genuinely poked fun at him since before their argument. Obviously things are getting back to normal. Good.

Not that he ever imagined he’d miss Hathaway’s digs – but he has.

James nods towards the counter to his right. “Bottle of wine breathing over there, sir – should be ready for pouring, if you like.”

“Me friends call me Robbie,” he points out, a gentle prompt, as he finds wine-glasses and starts to pour.

“Yes, I am aware-” James straightens, stares at him, eyes wide. “Sir?”

“Yes, that was an invitation.” James’s expression suggests that it’s only marginally less shocking than if Robbie had lit a spliff in front of him. “I hardly think it’s gonna destroy discipline in the ranks if a sergeant calls his governor by name off-duty.”

“It’s not that. Though I do appreciate it. Thank you.” James busies himself stirring the ingredients now gently frying in the... wok, that’s what it’s called, isn’t it? And, damn, he’s gone stiff and awkward again. “It’s just that I wouldn’t have thought you’d consider me a friend, especially after-”

“Maybe if I’d made sure you realised I did things might’ve been different,” Robbie suggests, placing a glass of what’s – unsurprisingly – a decent and quite expensive red where James can reach it. “Anyway, water under the bridge, all that. Let it go, man, all right?”

If he didn’t have the kind of observational skills honed by a decade and a half of schooling under Morse, Robbie might have missed the subtle change in James’s posture: a slight straightening of his spine, reminiscent of someone who’s just been relieved of a heavy burden.

There’s gratitude in the blue eyes that meet his gaze this time. “Yes. Thank you, si- Robbie,” James corrects himself as Robbie raises an eyebrow at him.

“You’re welcome, James.” Robbie takes a sip of the wine – it’s definitely good – and gives his sergeant an approving smile.

 

***

“...but Max – he was our pathologist back then – wouldn’t take no for an answer. Kept insisting. So finally Morse did take a look. Good job I was standin’ next to him. Didn’t know if he was gonna faint or vomit!”

“It was that bad?”  

“The body? No. Unusual injuries, that’s all. Oh, there was blood an’ that, but I’ve seen far worse. No, Morse just couldn’t stand looking at corpses. Too squeamish.” Robbie smiles, remembering.

“Doesn’t sound like a great qualification for someone leading murder enquiries,” James comments dryly, reaching across to top up Robbie’s glass. “He solved enough of them, if the stories are correct.”

“Oh, they are. Probably a bit of exaggeration here an’ there, but he was an outstanding detective. Just not good at anything to do with dead bodies. That was always my job.” He grins. “Max used to threaten to show him stomach contents.”

James pulls a face. “I’m still eating, sir.” He gestures to his half-empty plate.

“Ah, don’t be so squeamish, man. An’ I told you: no need to call me sir when we’re off-duty.” Robbie carries on eating. The stir-fry’s very good, though he should have expected that; as always, James doesn’t seem to do anything poorly.

“Sorry.” A ghost of a smile crosses James’s lips. “Not really used to first-naming authority figures.”

Robbie almost chokes on his wine. “Authority figures? You make me sound like Innocent!”

“Heaven forbid.” James’s tone is deadpan. “She’s far scarier than you are.”

“Not sure whether that’s a compliment or an insult.” Robbie shakes his head. “Though, seriously, you’re far more deferential to me – well, most of the time, when you’re not being facetious – than I was to Morse. Mind you, I wasn’t really given a choice about being his bagman to begin with, which didn’t help. Used to have a go at him all the time about his drinking. Looking back, I can’t imagine why he didn’t just have me transferred. Lucky he didn’t.  It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Can’t imagine you being rude to a superior officer, sir.” James’s tone is completely deadpan, and the _sir_ is beyond a doubt ironic.

“Now you’re definitely bein’ facetious.” Robbie shakes his head. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve missed that about you this last week or so, Jim.”

“James.” He gives Hathaway a questioning look. “If we’re stating preferences on names,” Hathaway explains, “I prefer James.”

“Should’ve said, soft lad! How’m I supposed to know if you don’t tell me?” Robbie swallows the last scrap of spicy vegetables, then lays down his cutlery. “Thanks, that was great.”

The corners of James’s mouth turn up in a faint smile. “You’re welcome.”

“All right, then.” Robbie leans back in his chair. “What’s this all about? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate all the trouble you went to. You know how useless I am in the kitchen, an’ it makes a change to eat something that’s not come out of a microwave. But you didn’t ask me over just ‘cause you took pity on your useless inspector.”

“Pity you? I wouldn’t dare.” James reaches over with the wine-bottle, but there’s only a little bit left. “Another?”

“Best not if I’m driving. An’ don’t change the subject.”

“Get a taxi. Or stay the night.” James swings up and out of his chair in a single movement and over to the counter, then opens another bottle.

“What, on your couch?” Robbie gathers up their dishes and takes them to the sink. It’s tempting not to go home; it’s not just that it’s been a long day – long _week_ – and he’s weary, but he likes the company. Doesn’t fancy going back to that empty flat, to the reminder that he’s alone and that’s probably the way it’s going to be for the next twenty years or however long he’s got left.

James shrugs as he turns, the bottle in his hand. “With your back? I wouldn’t do that to you. Take the bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

What’s he supposed to say to that? Instead, Robbie reverts to his earlier question. “What is this about?”

James gestures towards the living-room, eyebrows raised in a questioning look. Robbie answers by picking up their glasses and leading the way.

Flopping down next to him on the white sofa, James throws his head back and closes his eyes. “It’s been... difficult since I came back.”

Was that meant to be a question? “Not as far as I’m concerned. But, yeah, I noticed you’ve not been yourself.”

James is as still as a statue next to him. “I know we talked last week, sir. Robbie,” he corrects himself as Robbie makes a tiny movement of protest. “And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your willingness to overlook my actions and give me another chance. I know you never told Innocent, either; she never said a word to me.” He pauses, and Robbie waits; it’s a strategy that’s been proven in the past to work with his sergeant when the man’s being reticent. “I’ve been looking for a way to show my appreciation. And this...” An eloquent shrug finishes the statement.

“Told you it’s not necessary. Not that I wouldn’t say yes if you were ever inclined to repeat the invitation. You’re good company, James – when you’re not wallowing in martyrdom, any road.”

That makes James turn and look at him, a narrow-eyed, assessing glance that sees far more, Robbie realises, than he intended. “I can’t imagine what it must be like,” James says, slowly and very quietly, “to come home to an empty flat night after night when you thought there’d always be someone there.” The corners of his mouth turn down. “I did occasionally wonder why you’ve always been so welcoming any time I turned up at yours unexpectedly.”

As usual, the reminder’s like a punch to the gut, but Robbie controls his breathing and counts. This time he’s okay by the time he gets to five – and he’s calm enough to be surprised that James is only realising this now. Hathaway’s been intuitive enough on many other occasions when the subject of Val’s come up, directly or indirectly, that at times it feels as if he’s one of the very few who understands the daily struggle to live and breathe; to carry on alone.

But he’ll admit to neither of those things, not least because the last thing he wants from James right now is pity, and if that’s what he’s getting he’s nipping it in the bud right now. “If I’m welcoming,” he points out, an edge to his voice, “it might just be because I like you, surprising as it may seem.”

James goes very still for a moment, and then Robbie gets the most unguarded smile he’s ever got from his sergeant. “I like you too, s- Robbie. And, just in case there’s any doubt, you’re good company too.”

Robbie’s already reaching to – what? squeeze James’s hand? – before he checks the movement. The unconscious impulse is even more puzzling when it occurs to him that if this were Laura, or another woman whose company he enjoyed as much as James’s, he’d have had no hesitation in completing the touch.

Covering, he says, “Can’t help feeling guilty for monopolising your time, though, lad. You should be out with friends your own age, not entertaining your old inspector.”

That gets him a glare. “What?” he demands.

“Where do I start?” James actually rolls his eyes. “First of all, you’re not monopolising my time. No, first of all, you’re not old.” James shakes his head in apparent disgust. “As for friends my own age, you’ve seen how good I am at managing that.” He quirks one eyebrow. “Did I tell you that Jonjo told me I’m middle-aged?”

That makes Robbie laugh. “He knows you well, man.” He quirks an eyebrow. “D’you quote sixteenth-century literature at them an’ all?”

“I reserve that pleasurable experience for you, sir.” James delivers one of his more superior smiles.  

“Cheeky sod.” He gives James a mock glare. “Just for that, you’re doing the monthly statistics for Innocent.”

“Don’t I always?”

 Robbie reaches for the wine-bottle. “No point wasting this, since you opened it.” He refills both their glasses.

“You’re staying, then?” James slouches across the sofa, one ankle hooked over the other knee.

“Might as well. Us middle-aged blokes don’t seem to have a lot of other options at the moment.” Robbie grins.

“Oh, I don’t know.” James’s returning grin is definitely suspicious. “They swarm around you in droves, Robbie. I’d be jealous, if it wasn’t for the fact that you keep having to arrest them.”

Oh, Hathaway’s really back on form. He’s missed that dry sarcasm. “Better than having to be rescued from their attempts to kill you.”

James’s head slides sideways against the sofa-back, almost to Robbie’s shoulder but not quite. “Touché.” His lips have curved up very faintly at the corners. “Good thing I have you around to rescue me, eh?”

Robbie turns his head to look at James; their faces are inches apart. What he intends to be an exasperated look somehow becomes a fond smile. “Let’s just say next time it’s your turn to rescue me.”

Although, really, thinking about it, considering he’s not killing time in that silent, empty flat tonight and on so many other evenings now, maybe James already has?

In response, he gets a smile just like the one James gave him after he woke up in hospital. “Absolutely, sir. Consider it part of my job description, along with writing statistical reports and getting coffee.”

“You forgot being the designated driver. Oh, and cookin’ me dinner.”

“Of course,” James murmurs. “You know, you were right, Robbie.”

He doesn’t trust the faint twitch at the corners of his sergeant’s lips. “Oh yeah? What about?”

“Us middle-aged blokes should get together,” James drawls, deadpan, and gives Robbie a devoted, longing look. “At least I know you won’t try to murder me.”

For a moment, Robbie’s speechless. Then he looks straight into James’s eyes for a long moment – James isn’t the only one who can play those games – and then abruptly moves and loops an arm around James’s throat in a mock choke-hold.  

“You completely sure about that, Hathaway?”

 **\- end**


End file.
